


The Wife's Tale

by itsfourothree



Series: The Gilead Chronicles [1]
Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, Slow Build, oops there's sex now, takes place after A Handmaid's Tale, trying my best to merge the book with the television series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:52:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsfourothree/pseuds/itsfourothree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Children must have two parents. When the Wife of a handmaiden's household passes away, she is forced to marry the widower and become a Wife and adamant supporter of the Republic of Gilead during the start of a new era of riots and war. Though she is free from maidenhood, she is still trapped as a prisoner in a society she vowed to free her child from. Something is happening. She questions the allegiances in her household while hers is being tested. Constant uprisings and a failing government lead to an Angel defector who helps her search for a way to escape the Republic with her child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ceremony

The Wife is dead.

As many other women of her generation, she had been unwell ever since infancy, and even if she conceived a child, it was expected to be a Shredder. Her health deteriorated gradually and right at the peak of the social uprisings and the creation of The Republic of Gilead, her condition worsened melodramatically.

She was thirty-five, maybe. I couldn't tell. The disintegration of her body caused her to appear ages older than she was, or should have been. Her skin was pallid and cracked. She was a doll sitting on a shelf collecting dust as she waited to die. Her eyes were permanently hooded and drooped, so you could barely see the drowsy hopelessness in her gray eyes. Limp tresses of golden hair that had lost their luster were posed in refined and elegant curls to simulate loveliness. Her thin, straight lips, which rarely moved outside of prayer and to eat, were twisted in a frown even in death.

The Marthas whispered callously that she died from the dishonor of my-our pregnancy. As the child she longed for developed and matured inside my viable womb, she wilted and diminished in her life. She used all the energy that remained in her failing body to glower at me hatefully whenever she caught sight of me. I could do what she would never be able to. I was the first handmaid they had received who had honored God with a conception.

Blessed be the fruit.

When the Wife died, it was unceremonious and unobtrusive, just as the act of her death. She expired in her bed without saying a word; her glassy mournful eyes fixed on the ceiling or maybe the heaven she had devoted her life to earn entry to. The motionlessness of her body and the unblinking frozen stare of her eyes when spoken to were the only things that alerted the Marthas to her passing.

Her death would have been an event of no importance to me if I was not pregnant with the child intended for her and her newly widowed husband. If I weren't pregnant, I would have reverted to the Rachel and Leah Center while the widowed Commander waited for the arrangement of a new wife, and then a new handmaid.

I was not so lucky.

I am a handmaiden pregnant with a child who would have no mother. Children needed two parents. This was known. The Commander owned the child through blood and authority, and it could not be adopted by another family-nor could I.

An Aunt came to the household one dismal morning after the Wife had been buried; the same one who had assigned me to the couple. Her face is blank and stony with icy blue eyes that scowl at me disapprovingly. She sat me down in the sitting room. I had never sat in the sitting room. The Wife had ownership of the sitting room, and I am not meant for sitting. I am meant for bearing her children and staying out of sight, out of mind.

"I am certain that you are wondering what is to happen to the child once it is born." She droned flatly. It was not a question. There is a flicker of a southern accent circling her vowels. I am only fearful about what she had told me to be worried about because I am the vessel for the child and I wasn't to concern myself with anything but my duties. I am not allowed to ask about myself.

"It has been decided by decree of the Commanders of Faith, through the guidance of God after much prayer, that in the Republic of Gilead, you shall enter a marriage with the widowed father of the child, and you shall become a Wife. Until that time, you are still a handmaid, and should act as such. Is that understood?" She spoke with such conviction and aggression that I wondered if I was being ordered or threatened. Either way, I had no choice in the matter. She was the voice of God, and I was God's humble servant.

"Yes ma'am." I answered compliantly. I wasn't going to think about what she had said until she was gone. Her orders were lost to deaf ears. Handmaidens are not allowed a mind or thought or emotion, and the idea of marriage under the circumstances and to whom would cause great internal tumult in anyone. The hormones from my condition only worsened those pesky emotions.

"You will be married next Sunday during the Prayvaganza at noon, along with fourteen other Daughters. You will wear your red uniform to the ceremony, and once you are unified with your husband, you will be given a blue cloak to signify your union and your new role as Wife." I nodded. I do not speak unless spoken to. Nodding was more acceptable than verbal affirmation. "Let us pray."

Nearly dawn and I haven't gotten a second of sleep. I had been lost in my thoughts the entire day and into the night. My stomach churned and battled with the meals I had been given the previous day. It is imperative now more than ever to finish my meals. Leaving behind a few crumbs or remains on my trays were tolerated when I was eating for one, but now that I am supporting myself and a child, my meals are larger and trays have to be returned completely clean of food. No matter how violently my stomach objected to the food, I had to eat it, or else my situation would worsen.

I tossed and turned in my bed for hours before giving up on sleep and settling for pacing back and forth across the room. I had been pacing in a trance-like state for two hours now without ceasing, and was sure I had worn out the wooden panels beneath my bare feet.

Marriage. Married. Wife. Husband. Husband and Wife.

I hadn't given the concepts much thought before. Things like that aren't spoken about these days and in my situation nothing was discussed about anything at all. Weddings are a dim affair when they occur, and the ceremony had no excitement or sentiment to it. The nuptials happen during the Prayvaganzas and operated as a business deal. The Daughters were treasured by their parents for their purity and chaste nature, but soon became property to be bargained for when an eligible bachelor decided he admired something about her and wanted to possess it and claim it as his own.

I'm uncertain how much time has passed since my enlistment as a handmaid (I had only been on assignment for five months, but the time spent in the Rachel and Leah center blurred together with the events surrounding the ending of the Pre-Gilead times too easily) but when I became a handmaid, I had just turned twenty years old. I was sure that no more than a year had passed since my last glimpse outside before my time at the Center. We were confined indoors around the clock there, without access to a clock or calendar and lacking from a sense of time.

I decide that I might be twenty-one. The departure of autumn marked my entrance into the life of a handmaiden at the Center. When I left the Center to be deployed to my current station, it was the end of winter and my first experience being outside in months. My birthday was in the bleak midwinter, so it had passed under my nose during that time.

I knew of a few girls who had gotten engaged at twenty and twenty one, and only a handful who got married, typically because of pregnancy or pressure from their family. I hadn't thought of marriage or motherhood at all when I was still independent, because I was just that: independent. I had always been single and had begun some sort of relationship that was left unrequited at the start of the uprising and the terrorist attacks.

I lost my virginity to the man of the house but still had not had my first real kiss.

I am expected to marry a man I have never spoken to, only coupled with, who is almost thirty years older than me. I knew nothing about being a wife or a mother, and seeing as I would now have to be a Wife, I would have to learn to be a mother to the child, which will soon become my child once I marry the father.

Dampening the click of the door shutting behind me, I peek my head out and check the hallway for any signs of life-anyone to hear me out of bed so late and without permission. All of the lights are out, and I hear a distant snoring. I creep across the hall on the tips of my toes to the Wife's old room and cautiously poke the door with my finger. It is unlocked and opens just so under the push of my finger.

The smell of disinfectant and dust overpowers the smell of the night breeze that whistles through a window that hadn't been properly closed. The room was bare and plain, stripped and cleaned away of signs that anyone had lived in it before. A queen-sized canopy bed covered in fresh white sheets and new feather pillows centers the room. A simple nightstand with a lamp and bible accompanies it. A large wooden dresser with empty drawers stands tall against the adjacent wall under two paintings: one of heaven's pearly gates, and the other of the Garden of Eden. A tall wardrobe I don't dare touch sits between a small table with two chairs and a grand, white vanity next to the door. Between two long windows to the left of the bed is a grand white marble fireplace.

It would be my room in only a few days. I am to assume the role she had played and somehow sleep in her room, use her vanity, and read her bible.

Becoming a Wife was not my liberation and gave me no freedom. It was another role I had been cast into playing, this time without a script or direction.

I do not sleep during the last night of my time as a handmaiden.

One of the Marthas, Peggy, knocks on my door mid-morning to deliver my breakfast and vitamins. I eat the food slowly to not upset my stomach which did not solve the problem. Anxiety twists my stomach and morning sickness burns my throat. My breakfast is emptied into a toilet.

I am permitted by the Commander through Peggy to take a shower for the second time this week. Showers are only permitted in five minute intervals once a week to encourage cleanliness while discouraging prolonged amounts of time of nakedness and vanity. In this house, baths are not permitted for handmaidens. Drowning would not be an option.

My hair is dried and tucked beneath my white wings when it is time to head to the Prayvaganza. I dress myself very slowly and I am late to meet my partner who is waiting for me at the gates of my Commander's house. I notice that the black limousine he uses is still in its usual parking space parallel to the sidewalk. The Commander has not left yet. Maybe he won't come I hope.

"Blessed be the fruit." My companion murmurs in greeting to begin our walk.

"May the Lord open." I drone.

Her identity here is Ofchris. She is stationed three houses down from my station and is newer here than I am. She has been my companion for two months but has not conceived for her family yet. Her eyes are a shy hazel and always gaze miles away no matter where she stands. She searches for a child, I suppose. She bore a child at the house she was assigned to before this one; her first child as a handmaiden. Though we were forbid from saying it, she misses the child dearly.

"How is the health of your household?" She asks politely. I admire the way she speaks to me with genuine interest for my answer. Her voice is soft and kind, friendly.

"The Wife of my Commander has passed." I announce dryly. I am sure she already knows, but asks the question because she cannot ask me aloud how the woman died or if it is infectious. "The Lord has blessed the household and the Fruit of it with health to allow strength during mourning."

As we turn the corner to walk along the city street, she says, "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on." She is lucky to have died now before Gilead progresses she says.

I respond to her biblical citation with the appropriate response, "Praise be."

After a long silence, she spoke again. "The sun is high today." She observed. High shadows of the old office buildings and sky-scrapers casted down upon us as we passed the high-rises and townhomes.

"Praise Him for it."

We pass the old art museum with the lion statues. I don't remember the name of it. All of the art that was deemed sinful, immoral, or not honoring God was taken from the museum and destroyed. Priceless works of art, ancient artifacts, and the future works of young artists, all burned in fire and brimstone.

She walks closer to my side as we near more people walking towards the grand park that was built to honor the new millennia. "Unburden your woe upon me so I shall pray for you." Ofchris mutters. What troubles you?

"The passing of my lady has troubled my Commander's household." I say, hushed as we neared the other handmaidens. "God has blessed the Fruit by honoring me to join my Commander in holy matrimony as his Wife this day." No one was allowed to talk about themselves pleasantly. If they were pregnant, as I am, the Fruit was the center of praise and conversation. All good fortunes and blessings were for the Fruit and because of the Fruit.

I heard a sharp gasp followed by solemn silence. Such fusses were not allowed by us handmaidens, and if Ofchris silenced herself immediately, people might not notice her minimal outburst. "God has blessed you immensely with the joining of a father with the mother of his child. 'He who finds a wife finds what good and receives favor from the Lord.'"

"Amen."

It is harder now more than ever before to act appropriately. The religious greetings and responses lost their meanings to all of us, devout or devoid of faith alike, when becoming a handmaiden due to the normalization and misplacement of meaning as it became a centerpiece of constant vernacular. Now it felt as it did before when I said it in prayer, and I despised it. God damn it I craved to say.

"Take honor in this blessing." Ofchris sounds distressed. "The prayers of your sisters in Christ may never be answered by this miracle." She sounds like a mother, and I imagined her giving me away as my mother during the ceremony.

"I rejoice and thank God."

I eye the pairs of fellow handmaidens shuffling around us on light feet. These women are trapped forever. If they were fortunate, they would bear a child within their two-year assignment per family until they are no longer youthful enough to carry or conceive, and then become Aunts or Marthas. If they displeased their family, did not conceive, or miscarried during their two-year period, they would be tossed around or sent to the colonies if found unfit for the role of handmaiden.

"The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the Lord turn his face toward you and give you peace." My partner's honeyed voice prays. She prayed, truly prayed, for me then, and I told her how much I love her a million times in my mind.

I realize that I might never see her again, at least not in this capacity. If I ever did see her, I was forbidden to acknowledge her, and even sending her a smile would be cause for trouble from my Commander. The Wives, if I was allowed to speak to them officially, would never receive me. All of them were cruel and arrogant in their ways, and to them, I would never be their equal. No matter how many children I bore, no matter who I married, how beautiful or kind I was, I would never be a Wife. I would be a wife. Not to mention I was the second wife of a Commander.

The Aunt who had spoken to me days ago in the Commander's house was waiting outside of the pavilion where the Women's Prayvaganza is being held today. Dozens of Guardians, and Eyes no doubt, are monitoring the entire area from the perimeter. I had never been to a concert or event here, but I had passed the pavilion many times in the Old Days. It is a large, grassy filed shaped like an oval, with a hundred rows of seats at the helm to sit comfortably before the stage.

"Come with me, Ofdaniel." She barks sternly. I give Ofchris one last loving glance before I am swept away and following the Aunt. I am led away from the train of handmaidens being corralled into the venue to be roped off, away from the legitimate people. "Stand here with me and do not move until I lead you."

"Yes ma'am." I reply.

We are lined up with the other mothers and Daughters behind the very last row of seats, who are waiting anxiously to be given away to their new husbands, arranged accordingly for them by their parents. Love is not real in our world anymore. Marriage is strictly for business, formality, and procreation.

The mothers are dressed in their absolute finest shades of blue, some embroidered subtly with accented hues of navy and cerulean. Clothing can be styled, but only worn on special occasions like these, even for Wives. Though separated, we are all the same, and there would be no characteristics about us besides our natural appearance and traits that defined us or made us unique.

The Daughters, ranging from fourteen to, I suppose, my age, are all pale and thin, delicate as birds and fragile and polished as china. They wear pure white dresses with adornments of lace and ruffles at their sleeves and collars. They decorate themselves with their mother's old jewelry and are allowed to wear thin amounts of makeup to accentuate their cherub cheeks and doe-shaped eyes. All of their heads are blonde, but some were golden and others were strawberry. Their hair is braided elaborately and ornamented with ribbons and flowers. They are show-animals, purebred, raised and trained to be obedient, and groomed to perfection so that they shine and can be applauded as they trot about and make their parents proud.

The men, Angels save for my Commander, are dressed in their finest black uniforms and shining in the sun with their newly decorated vests on the other end of the pavilion. They are separate from us females, as it should be.

A Commander steps up to the podium and begins to speak about how glorious of a day today is. He looks familiar to me. Who was he? Oh yes, he is the son of the last mayor in the city. Rumors had flown around that he arranged for his father's assassination himself. He had been working with the original Sons of Jacob and decided that he would cleanse the city that his father dirtied.

After mumbling prayers, he begins the ceremony and I feel the Aunt handcuff me at the wrist with her bony hand and drag me down the aisle. No escape. I couldn't escape now. I was trapped. I was a criminal. The only way to be saved, as the Commander declared, was to marry and bear God's children. Through my peripherals I see the hateful stares from the women I pass. The Econwives are the cruelest. I am considered less than them in rank, but I was instantly being promoted to Wife while they were still stuck in stripes.

The men come next. They aren't quite formal; they're insultingly informal from where I stand. They march down the aisle to complete their mission: marriage. They walk arrogantly with noses turned up in disgust; they think themselves too dignified to respect some young girl in white for doing nothing as they fight for God.

All the brides face the Commander as he preaches to us about how we shall act as Wives and how we are doomed for being a sex that we did not choose. I hear the stomping of the men as they line up and file in behind their betrothed, and I smell the heavy cologne of my Commander behind me. The time has come for the exchanging of the rings and vows, and the lifting of veils. I panic. I don't have a veil. I am a fool already. We are allowed to face our soon-to-be husbands now, and I look at my Commander as if for the first time.

I had only seen the Commander once, in person. The first Ceremony we had was when I conceived, and therefore no more Ceremonies were to be had. During the Ceremony, I did not look at the Commander too much; that was emotional and forbidden. I realized that I recognized him from first glance: He was a popular actor who had been saved from being killed or sent away to the Colonies by repenting for all of his sins and devoting his life to the new Republic of Gilead.

His face was not as handsome as it had been during his prime, but it was still considerably more attractive than the Angels who stood beside us. Warm chocolate colored eyes are sunken beneath a heavy brow line, and hair as smooth and rich as black coffee is styled neatly on his head and in a thin mustache and goatee ensemble around his mouth. He has a thick, square face and jaw with a large and flat forehead. He looks French, I think, and probably has blood from every part of Europe-a melting pot of ancestors that had luckily not given his skin too swarthy of a look to be perceived as a person of color. If he had been any darker or had researched his ancestry when people demanded him to prove his right to act in a controversial role he took, he might have been sent to the Colonies.

I knew about the Sons of Ham, as they were called, and the other Sons of Jacob who were sent to Israel, but I was unaware about the circumstances for anyone who wasn't Caucasian enough for Gilead's standards. What was that word that infamous dictator used? Oh, right-Aryan Perfection.

He does not look at me during the ceremony. I notice this and decide to stop looking at him. Instead of lifting my non-existent veil to reveal the innocent and tear-stricken face the other brides have, he unceremoniously removes my headdress and I catch his eyes widening as my hair tumbles down. Handmaidens never showed hair-not a wisp or a line of it.

My raging hormones only agitate the panic attack that is threatening to take effect and destroy me. The words the Commander is saying are gurgled and misplaced as I try to focus on my breathing and keeping calm. I hear my Commander mumble something roughly. He takes my trembling gloved hand and slips a small golden wedding band on my ring finger. He does not let go of my hand, and slips the ring I presume to be his into my other hand. I mutter something mechanically as I have been programmed to say it by the Commander and slip my husband's wedding band on his thick ring finger, squeezing it over his fat joints. I am still gazing absently at the ground when he pinches my chin and drags it to his, crushing his dry lips against mine. The kiss is quick and rough, not at all how my first kiss or my first kiss as a married woman should have been.

"Let us pray."

The Commander-my husband-joins his hands with mine once more and holds them tightly as we squeeze our eyes shut and pray uselessly for God to bless our union and make it fruitful. A thick blue cloak is wrapped around me to signify my new life.

I am a Wife.


	2. Red, White and Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't apologize enough for my lateness with this chapter. I've been writing and editing it since last summer. I am hella busy with class and two jobs, but one of my jobs gives me moderate down-time so I may be able to write more often. No promises, sorry! And yes, I have been watching the series on Hulu, which answered a few lingering questions I had about how I could/should write this story, such as if the "children of ham" were still a thing. I know I mentioned that in my first chapter, but now that the series and Margaret have allowed poc to be present in the storyline, I'll be more than happy to write with that in the future!

There is a reception at a Commander's home for all the newly married couples.   
This Commander's house is quaint and humble, as it should be. The architecture was popular roughly a century ago but remains timeless in a place that is running out of time.   
The Wife's garden is the centerpiece of the backyard that we are quickly corralled to. With honeybees virtually extinct, the Wives have replaced their presence effortlessly, swarming about the garden in a tight group. They buzz excitedly about frivolous things that they're allowed to have an opinion on and touch every single flower petal with a gentility reserved only for the miracles that they produced using their fertility.   
I wonder if the Wives weep over dying plants in the garden the same way they did when they discovered they were infertile. They hover over and admire their gardens as if each patch were a child. No one has the courage nor the absolute cruelty to remind them that the pink tulips will never be the blush on a baby's cheek. The sunflower won't have notches on the doorframe marking each growth spurt. Soon, the season will change and their gardens will wither and die. They will be reminded of just how barren their lives are.  
Wicker tables and chairs are scattered about the grass. An empty table below a willow is my only course of action available. I cannot find my husband. Without him, I cannot leave.   
Without him, I cannot.   
With him, can I?  
The men lounge around their tables and discuss business and politics while laughing over something that can't be funny, since there is only God in Gilead and God is not funny. There is an unspoken natural segregation between the blue and the black. The girls in white linger near the fence and twitter quietly in pairs of two. If this were a high-school dance, they would be the scared freshmen sitting on the bleachers half-hoping for a boy to ask them for a dance but secretly dreading the idea of answering and dancing with a boy in front of so many people. They are completely lost and out of place here without a mother to instruct them. They gaze at the Wives, studying their behavior until the older women giggle and scoff at the young brides for being so immature and inexperienced in domestic life. The girls then steal glances at their husbands who are more engrossed in political talk than their marriage to even notice the eyes upon them.   
A young girl bathed in white approaches me, meager as a mouse and just as small. "Is this seat taken?" She asks sweetly, eyeing the open chair next to me.   
I shake my head. My lips move strangely; I'm still programmed to be mute and this makes me unsure of if my new title allows me to respond. I display a polite smile.   
The bride is alarmingly young. Sixteen, I estimate. Small blemishes on her chin and forehead have been concealed expertly by her mother who also filed her nails cleanly to repair the damage her daughter's teeth had inflicted. Her chestnut hair is braided in a halo atop her head and ornamented with white ribbon. Her doe-shaped eyes are the color of robin's eggs; a crack is beginning to form in her shell of innocence. I can see it if I watch close enough. She's hardened her outside to protect against any damage but under that tough exterior is the vulnerable child that remains. Her body is delicate as a dove with skin and features just as soft. She is not ready for her wings to be clipped.  
"Uh...my name is Jane." She states as if her mother is prompting her. "What's y-may I ask yours?" A blush creeps over her round cheeks.   
"Ofdaniel." I reply monotonously.   
"Oh." I can hear the disappointment in her voice. She inspects a fallen leaf on the table and whispers, "Do, uh...do you still need to go by that name? Since you're a Wife? I mean, we're Wives..." She babbles. "But...can't you go by your real name? I-I won't tell anyone if you tell me." She promises, hushed.   
Suddenly I'm young again and sharing a scandalous secret. I wonder if the new generation of girls; the Gilead Girls, are allowed friends of any kind. Their parents, more specifically the mothers, control everything about their daughters and cherish them like dolls. Their mothers dress them, feed them, teach them (not academically but in their duty to God and men), and pick their husbands for them. Has Jane ever been someone's friend? Am I the first friend she has, after only moments of becoming a woman?   
If she is sincere in her questions, then she will fall from grace before the braided halo can even be unwoven from her head. This girl, Jane, questions things. They are valid questions, critical questions that in any other circumstance should give her pride for such attention to detail. But we are in Gilead. The Eyes and the men can see the resistance as soon as a defective thought crosses your mind. Jane has plunged into the danger zone by speaking it. The simple act of intelligent thought on her part is criminal enough. To question a Wife, a Handmaid, the name given to them by the Sons of Gilead and her Commander was another nail in the casket.   
My lips hint at a smile. Is this a test? Should I reveal my true name to her? Should I create a fake one in case she tattles to her husband?   
"Esther." I say.   
I am liberated. I am no longer a number. I am named. To be human is to be free and I am no more a government-issued slave without a name or a soul or a mind or a heart. If I am murdered or hanged or tortured for my name then I am overjoyed, because they who punish me and remember me will have recognized that my name is Esther. My name is Esther. My name was not Esther. There is no more was. There is. I am.   
The girl smiles at the secret shared. A bond. "Esther," she repeats, experimenting with how her voice expresses my name. "I like that name."   
There is another long silence. I scan the crowd-I am paranoid. I fear I am some classification of fugitive bound for capture by the Eyes at any moment. I spot my husband gulping down a drink to hide his discomfort from the circle of men around him. I assume the discussion topic is something he's alien to. If I were his wife-by choice-I would rescue him from the situation but I am not a loving Wife, and Wives do not speak unless spoken to.   
"Your husband..." The girl squeaks. "Does he enjoy the films he makes now? I loved-I mean, I enjoyed the films he made when he was young." She gushes.   
My husband has been making films since before I was born and has touched every genre of film available to him. Jane must have watched his older films secretly; his family films weren't made until he was past forty years old. He has no skills besides his acting, having dropped out of high school and never picked up a book since. I don't say this to be cruel. His acting has more influence on people than any diploma would have given him. When the Republic rose, he became an actor for Gilead. Propaganda films and biblical movies are the only visual entertainment allowed or produced, and he is a star.   
"He enjoys serving God and Gilead." I reply more dryly than I should sound. Wives enjoy their lives and the Republic of Gilead. I am a Wife. I should sound delighted.   
The Marthas come by all the tables and set down glasses of water, stating that the food will be served soon. A few other brides saunter over and join Jane and me. They make small talk in bursts before settling in silence. One girl who appears two or three years younger than me that has remained silent gets cocky and asks me what sex is like. The girls gasp and shift in their seats and stare at me, eagerly waiting for an answer.   
I realize that these girls are my only company for these next long hours and they won't be able to forget the question that has already been asked. I must answer. "Being a handmaid, I only know how it happens during the Ceremony." I reply.   
"You've never done it before?" Another girl asks.   
I'm slightly insulted by the way she says it. Her generation was Gilead-centric and knew nothing about sex. When I was young, Gilead was only an idea. Despite the governmental and moral push for abstinence-only lifestyles, having sex before marriage was the popular practice. I never had the chance to have it.   
"Have you, Melanie?" Jane raises an eyebrow at the other girl, who shoots back an annoyed pout. "What do we do?" Jane asks, turning to me.   
I am not prepared for this. I know as much as they do about what is going to happen tonight. "Well...in my experience...you lay down on the bed and the man does everything. Then you get up and leave." I explain.   
"Does it hurt?" A red-headed girl chirps.   
"The first few times." I admit. The husbands aren't concerned with the comfort or care of the vessel, making the first few times more painful than they should be.   
Though I am not famished, I feel relieved as the Marthas begin to distribute plates of food to our table. The girls immediately pause the conversation and the Martha has a suspicious expression on her face. A group of young women, new brides, being completely silent is highly unusual and gives reason to suspicion.  
It's not until the sun has gone down that I am allowed to leave the reception with my husband. The sky has a strange darkness to it that I can't quite understand. It's touchable, rather than the natural uncapturable essence it should hold. It reminds me of movie sets from decades past, with complete skylines painted and constructed to give a type of pleasure or closure to the people standing against them, a backdrop to help them play their part and almost forget that they aren't real. Until they touch that backdrop and they realize that they are indeed on a set with doors that lock behind them in a never-ending maze of cardboard worlds and props and costumes, lines they must follow and directions they must wander.   
I know that my husband has been drinking; it's something I know the other Commanders allow him to get away with. He's an actor, not an influential public figure. He is a puppet for the government and until the lights turn on and the makeup is strewn across his face, he can drown himself in gin and scotch and other poisons until he runs the rivers dry. He pours himself into our car, mumbling drunkenly not quite to himself but not quite to me or the driver. I can't really make out what he's saying but I don't try to decipher it; it's obviously not for my ears and he's in his own world where everything he says makes sense and he's the only one that knows the punchline.   
I spend the car ride home on the other end of the leather seats from my husband, trying to take up the least amount of space that I can with the state of my pregnant body-an incredibly hard task. I do this partly out of habit, separating myself from a class and person higher than I, making myself as invisible as I can. The other part, the stronger part that allows me to break from my habits and roll my eyes at the drunken man, is preserving myself from becoming intimate with him until I must. Sitting in the same vicinity as he makes me uneasy.   
I can't purge the thoughts that pester me about what happens when the car stops and the engine dies. There is no intercourse with the handmaid once she's pregnant; intercourse is for procreation exclusively. Does that still apply now that I am no longer a handmaid? The last few months tell me that Daniel isn't exactly conservative or dedicated like other Commanders, but there are only small little details that make me question how much of Gilead he believes in. It's hard to believe that the men who make the rules always follow them.   
As we pull up to the greystone, I respond to my dread of what to do next by making myself a statue, cold eyes glued to the tinted window. I almost tumble out of the car when the driver opens the door for me but I say nothing and keep my eyes down, hearing it slam behind me as I make my way around the car. I wait for my husband to step out of the car without any balance or grace. He tries to say something to the driver about having a good night and going to bed, but the driver insists on bringing him into the house himself. Not listening to the aggressive refusals from the other man, the driver puts Daniel's arm around his shoulder and practically hoists him up from falling to the ground with each step. His feet limply drag up the stairs as he growls, "I have the keys. Only me. Unless you have a key, shut up." in response to the driver's encouragement to keep his head up. In an unusual wave of maternal instinct, I guard my stomach with my hands, fearful that my husband will fall backwards or flail his hands and collide with my stomach.   
Unclaimed emotions are beating against my head and my chest. The imagined wedding night treasured in my mind for so many years stings my eyes. I was supposed to be in white, a virgin maybe, but not pregnant. Not wearing layers of red under a cloak of blue with a stranger's child sucking the life from me. My husband is supposed to sweep me off my feet and cradle me against him, holding me like a prize as we cross the threshold. This is not what happens. Instead, Daniel almost trips when the toe of his shoe catches the doorstep and the driver has to guide him upstairs to his bedroom.   
I swear he didn't even notice me there.


	3. Of Monsters and Men

The room which belonged to the Late Wife has been stripped clean, or cleaner than it had been. The scent of her and the repugnant maelstrom of sickness and sanitizer has been eradicated. Any indication of her useless existence has been so diligently erased that short of washing away my memories of her, I could have forgotten that anyone had ever stepped foot in this place. All that is left behind is a space I am contracted to fill.

            My old room, the handmaid’s room, will be converted to a nursery soon enough. The walls will be painted over with some bullshit ‘gender neutral’ color called custard or toffee that will inevitably be stamped over by dirty, sticky hands because even as a toddler, the child will unwittingly put its best efforts towards masking that lifeless color.

            _My child. Our child?_ No. I won’t decide now who owns the child. Even if it is human, which I refuse to believe since nothing born of Gilead can be natural, all humans are owned like cattle and this form that incubates within me is a product created to serve the government that ordered its existence. I am not certain if I want to claim sole or even shared responsibility for that product.

            I was tasked to be a surrogate. I had trained myself to not picture giving up any of the children I bore because to prepare myself to lose them required me to program myself to care about that experience or any experience involving a child leading up to that. This child may come from me but it will have nothing from or of me. Gilead took all of that away.

            I will not decide this future tonight. Tonight will be the night that I rest soundly; the night that I sleep without fear.

            I shut the door behind me, deciding to lock it. I am allowed to lock a door. The Marthas could pick the lock or have the door busted down if I holed myself within, but I am not locking the door to restrain what lies on either side of it. I lock the door because I can lock the door and even if it serves no purpose it means that I can control something. I am allowed to have an illusion of privacy to a room that is my sanctuary. I may not own the house or the room but it has been given to me, willed unknowingly by the Late Wife to me as a wedding gift.

            I notice the fireplace is picturesque like a photo in a furniture catalog, lacking a dusting of soot and wood shavings. Nearing it I realize that the fireplace is real but doesn’t utilize real firewood and instead uses flame-resistant log-shaped material and is fueled by gas. I locate matches on the mantle next to a key that I assume will turn on the gas; it helped the Late Wife sustain her fire longer. I momentarily contemplate over taking advantage of the key and inhaling the gas. _No._ I decide, scraping a long match along the box and hearing it hiss to life. The hiss sounds wickedly pure; the excitement of reclaiming something so natural yet forbidden. I toss the match. Blossoms of orange and yellow painted heat make me shiver in their glorious presence. I haven’t felt or seen fire in so long-too long-I want to reach out and embrace it. My old friend.

            I decide that if I die- _when_ I die-that I will not be entombed or remembered in red and blue. I shed the heavy cloak and pretend that the navy fabric pooling around my feet is water from a sea far away from this room. I gingerly remove my wedding band and place it atop the mantle so I can pluck each scarlet entrapment from my fingers. I remove each layer of red fabric and throw it on the fire before I can talk myself into diving in after it. The fabric won’t be good for the fire place, I reckon, wondering if the flames will devour it before an Aunt comes to take it back from me and force over another young handmaid. I will think of a cover-up story about the location of my old uniform if or when the time comes.

            I am naked. I am not cold nor ashamed of my nakedness. I am proud of it. I am myself again if only for a moment. No colors or class to identify me.

            A kick to the inner walls of my abdomen rocks me back to reality, anchoring me there in surprise. The baby has never kicked before. Symptoms can occur later in gestation than expected during a woman’s first pregnancy, the doctors had told me. The kick is swift and more painful than I expect. I place a hand flat upon my swollen lower half, though it won’t relieve the soreness. A moment after placing my hand upon the curve of my belly I feel another kick. This one feels deliberate. _Can it feel me there? Can it feel what I feel before the fire in my nakedness?_

            “Little monster.” I murmur, feeling betrayed by a small child taking residence in my body for stealing away what I considered a private moment for itself.  

            He shifts. _Yes._ I nod, soothing circles over my stomach. This little monster feels to be a he.

            “Time for bed.” I say, making myself feel silly to imagine that the little monster hears me and will obey me by settling down for the night.

            I cross the room and open the wardrobe to find an abundance of new clothes in my maternity measurements all in varying shades of quiet and reserved blue. I retrieve a lengthy cotton nightgown with a slit in the sleeves that continues to the hem joining it to torso. Even for a nightgown, it would be seen as immodest to display an excess of the arm. I pull the gown over my head and sulk back to the mantle, remembering the wedding ring I had left there. I hadn’t heard any stories about a spouse getting caught without wearing their ring, nor do I want to be the case that leads to such a story.

            Sliding myself onto the bed I am overjoyed and grateful to know that these are not the same sheets the Late Wife had slept (or died) on. The sheets are infinitely more soft and comfortable than the ones I had been provided as a handmaid. I am too mentally and physically exhausted to take five minutes to indulge myself and explore the softness of the sheets all over my body. The crackling of the fireplace lulls me into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

* * *

            Nausea wakes me around seven-thirty. I start my morning with a sprint to an unfamiliar bathroom. The unusual meal from the night before conjures up such violent vomiting that a Martha (it sounds to be Peggy) rushes in with fright splashed across her features. “Are you alright, Mrs. Tarleton?”

            My eyes are still closed. I roll them regardless. Hearing her call me by that name makes my stomach churn again. “Please don’t call me that.” I huff grumpily. 

“Yes ma’am.” She replies, placing a comforting hand on my back and offering me the free one to guide me to my feet. “Mr. Tarleton was also ill this morning.” Peggy notes. Her vague statement is the closest she can venture towards gossiping without being throttled for slander. “I think he is well enough now to join you for breakfast in the dining room.”

I let out a putrid breath and regret doing so. “I’ll be down shortly.” I turn on the sink and catch my reflection in the mirror. Bile burns my throat and threatens to bubble up once more. I haven’t seen my own reflection without distortion or blurriness for nearly a year.

My hair is dull and embarrassingly scruffy, not to mention riddled with dead ends with splits nearly an inch long. A sullen, unfamiliar face glares back at me that is so dry and neglected a layer of dust would have given it texture and color. _My eyes. Oh god, my eyes._ My favorite feature. My irises have always been a miraculous shade of pale jasmine. Now my eyes are rimmed with exhaustion and sunken in like shallow graves with a slimy green ring festering around the pupils.

Peggy is still here, watching. I see the pity in her eyes. “Would you like me to put up your hair, ma’am?” This is the only comfort or aid she can provide.

I nod, closing my eyes. “I’ll get dressed.”

My husband is hidden behind a newspaper at the head of his great white marble table. I guess he believes that no matter how much he spends on something, it can be labeled as minimalist if it’s a solid color and remains relatively shapeless. I take my seat at the opposite end of the table.

“Blessed morning.” His voice is muffled behind the newspaper. “How is our little _fruit_ today?” He clearly is not invested in an answer judging by the dry quality of his voice. I wonder if he cares as little as I do about the pregnancy.

“Kicking,” I mutter carelessly. “He started kicking last night.” I announce after my plate of breakfast is set down before me. Do I tell him this sort of thing?

“ _He_?” My husband echoes skeptically, folding up the paper.

“Y-Yes…” I trail off nervously and sip on my water.

Blinking, Daniel chuckles to himself with a self-made amusement that is secret to me. “What has led you to believe that the child is a boy?”

I shrug, though my shoulders are fraught with tension. _A mother’s intuition?_ “My mother told me that you could always tell if a woman was having a boy by the way the baby rested on the body.” I instantly regret bringing up my mother and silently pray that my husband won’t ask about my mother or my family. I cannot think about them, especially now.   

My husband frowns not at me but at himself. I see him struggle to keep down the remnants of alcohol and vomit from the previous night by shoving a fork full of food into his whiskey stained mouth. He’s positively sweating out the alcohol now. Are all the men as fond of alcohol as him? Or was it the idea of marrying a stranger who carries his child no less than a week after his wife had passed away and left him in this new hell of a society by himself. For a moment, only a moment, I allow myself to pity him because I understand that he had lost his choice to choose a life for himself and had as much say in our marriage as I had.

We are both trapped.

* * *

 

It is my first doctor’s appointment as a Wife. Peggy is instructed to accompany me to the office since I no longer have a partner in red nor do I have fellow Wives to join me and get over-excited at an exam that I cannot believe is enjoyable to anyone. Even with the wings shielding their faces I can recognize many of the handmaids who sit silently around me. In the corners of my vision, white wings dare to give second glances. Am I the first Wife to join them in this place?

When my name is called, it is Mrs. Tarleton instead of Ofdaniel. The doctor poorly hides his surprise at the change in name and title as I rise to meet him.

“So, you’re the handmaid who married their Commander?” He asks with a fake hint of respect, now that I am no longer a handmaid, as if marrying a Commander is an honor that handmaids (or any woman) covets and dreams of.

“Am I the first one?” I ask daringly. As a Wife, I may be allowed an honest answer about the complexity of my situation.

“I only hear about the women in the city.” He notes, drying off his hands next to an immaculate hand-washing station. “As far as I know, yes.” He rolls his gloves on and adds quietly, “The first Wife since the rise of Gilead, if I’m not mistaken.” He begins poking and prodding my abdomen and jotting things down in his report. “How often are you experiencing morning sickness?”

“Not too often.” I reply. “I had a rather violent wake-up call thanks to it this morning.”

“When you say ‘violent’, does that mean painful or bloody?”

“No, no,” I shake my head. “It was just very abrupt and…graphic.” I scrunch my nose at the memory of the smell.

“I see. Because of the wedding, perhaps?”

I shake my head, unsure if stress had a true influence on my morning. “He started kicking last night.” I add.

“ _He_?” The doctor echoes in the same annoying tone as my husband. “Has a different doctor used an ultrasound machine?” He asks in a low whisper. Any device that could tell a mother about their child is ungodly, since God knew all and only God could warrant that kind of information about His creations.

“No sin. I just…have a feeling.”

“Well we’ll find out if you’re onto something in a few months.” He reassures me before carrying on with the rest of the exam.

“Good news?” Peggy chirps anxiously as soon as I emerge from the office.

“Everything is fine.” I say dryly, hoping to dampen her exploding emotions.

“Blessed be the fruit!” She rejoices. Peggy acts as if it were her own child.

“Peggy, may I ask you a question?” I ask once we are within the car. The engine turns over loudly and the car buzzes to life.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did-do you have any children of your own? Before all of this?” The smile on her fleshy face fades and her eyes are no longer staring ahead but past me and past anything that lies on the physical space before us; she’s gone back in time in her own mind and her eyes glass over. “I apologize. You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s alright, ma’am.” The hint of a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. “James was my firstborn and Ru came a few years later. Cancer took her when she was twenty-four.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I say, wanting to place a comforting hand on hers. “Where is James now?”

“My boy…” She smiles fondly. “I was so proud of him. He was so smart. He became a historian and was in Scotland when…” She trails off and swallows. It’s not easy to describe the rise and fall of power that always worked against you. “I haven’t heard from him since then, but I hope and pray that he’s happy and healthy.”

I take a moment to translate my feelings into the permitted vernacular. “Our Lord protects those we love, even if we cannot see or hear the fruits of that protection.”

“Yes, He does.” Peggy replies without a hint of belief. My words are no comfort to her. She will have no comfort until she is given a sign of her son’s wellbeing. “A child will be the blessing your household has been waiting for.”

* * *

 

I take a long shower. Lukewarm water is how I like it when I choose to take my merry time. It is more soothing now. The shower and the soap is more luxurious than what was previously permitted. The soap softens my skin instead of scrubbing the surface clean. The showerhead has several functions, one function being so gentle that it massages my skin until I nearly fall asleep. The towels are better, too. Light and fluffy they suck up moisture from my skin and hair like a sponge.

I wrap the large towel around myself and sit before the mirror to brush my hair that shines like wet seaweed sticking to my neck and back. As I begin to rake a comb through my hair a knock comes from the door.

“One moment!” I snatch the navy silk robe from its hook and quickly don it over myself and tie the rope over my swollen abdomen so Peggy doesn’t chide me for only being in a towel.

Opening the door, I am greeted not by Peggy or any other Martha but my husband. He’s more relaxed in a loose white-button down shirt and black pants.

All the color has drained from my face. His knock was quieter than Peggy’s and not the loud rapping I’d grown accustomed to. I had never seen him go in to the Wife’s room before, and I wondered if it was by choice or Gileadean rules about private lives. Either way, I hadn’t heard or expected him to enter my room. The bathroom seemed more private, somehow. Was I being reprimanded for something?

“You seem to have seen a ghost,” he laughed playfully. “Are you alright?”

My mouth is dry as the Sahara. “Y-yes I’m alright. No ghosts.” I babbled stupidly. Stupid, stupid.

“Did I frighten you?” He reckons he did, I can tell, but sounds surprised at the thought.

 _Yes. You always do._ “I thought you were Peggy or one of the other Marthas. I would have covered up more if-” I wrap my arms around myself like a shield, suddenly conscious that despite carrying his child within me, this is the most intimate and vulnerable I’ve been with him. Alone, practically naked, in my bathroom.

“This isn’t church.” His voice is strangely comforting. Knowing that he’s hardly as conservative and modest as the other men I’d heard of is a relief. I will myself to smile in agreement. “Peggy is feeling unwell and is resting until morning. Did you need something?”

 _Shouldn’t I be asking that to him?_ “No. I was only brushing my hair.”

“You’ve had a long day.” Going to the doctor must be very tiring to other women. “Let me brush your hair.” He says rather than asks. Before I can politely decline, he has a hand on my back guiding me back to my chair.

He loudly pulls a chair out and positions himself behind me. I shudder when his hand ghosts past my neck, gathering wet tendrils to tame. He flinches. “Is this alright?” It sounds like he’s genuinely concerned, as if he’d actually stop if I told him I was uncomfortable. In truth, that betrays everything I’ve felt in the past about his touch.

I don’t want him to stop touching me. I am starved of touch and warmth and damn me to hell for it but my skin is begging for him to continue exploring it. Any touch that is not malicious or violent is a godsend that I will embrace. Freezing and starving, his touch and warmth nourish parts of me that are nearly dead and gone from neglect.

“Yes.” I apologize. “No one has brushed my hair for years.” I close my eyes and cherish the warmth of his fingers meeting the damp chill of my scalp. “I used to beg my friends to brush or braid it.” I confess. This note, small but personal, feels risky in its telling.

His touch lingers long on my skin, a small favor. “I can brush your hair whenever you want me to.” He takes the comb from the counter and begins brushing the bottom of my hair first to clear out the knots. He must have done this before. To his wife, maybe? No. I am not going to think about him doing the same thing to her in the bathroom she used to use.

“I wouldn’t want to bother you.” I stiffen. Maybe he is buttering me up before he reveals some sin I’ve unknowingly committed and threatens me. Men are cruel in that way. Maybe he’s a sadist who will make up something that I can be blamed for and will tear the hair out of my scalp with his fist.

“You are my wife.” He states. The word ‘wife’ hangs heavily in the air. It is a reminder that while he may ask for my permission, the permission is only cordial and his word is law. “We live together now.” We have always resided in the same place since I was stationed at his house; separate but not together. Our lives are now bonded by law and by God. “If brushing your hair makes you happy, I am happy.”

We settle in a comfortable silence as his fingers follow the trail of my comb, soothing away any remaining tangles. He almost caresses my scalp and lingers perfectly at the juncture of my neck and my jaw.

“I came to apologize for my behavior last night. Everything in my life has been changing so fast…last night should have played out differently.”

“It’s okay.” I lie without thinking. Even before Gilead, I had been raised, maybe taught, to apologize for wrongs I didn’t commit and forgive things I did not see as forgivable. I have nothing else to say in response. A forced marriage should be bad enough, but ending my wedding night pregnant and alone still stings the small pride I had rescued after becoming a handmaid.

He sets down the comb and continues to run his fingers lazily through my hair. “Can you forgive me?” His question is quiet and weighed down with guilt that I cannot determine to be genuine or assumed.

 _No._ “There is nothing you’ve done that calls for forgiveness.” I reply robotically.

He holds his breath and leans forward. “I didn’t know until after the Ceremony that you were a virgin.” The word ‘virgin’ rolls from his tongue slowly, sounding like blasphemy.

 _Were._ It feels like I still am. My hymen had been broken and my womb filled with a man’s seed, but there was no lust or desire or passion involved in that process. There was no awkward fumbling or questions asked, no laughing at mistakes or moaning at the perfection of rhythmic movements that finally combine and merge at the right pace.

I freeze. The memory of burning and stinging from that night lives freshly in my mind. There was only a little bit of blood, but the Marthas had to replace the bedding regardless. My legs and thighs were weak for hours, and I was still sore the next morning.

“I would have gone slower…I would have been…gentler…” he trails off.

 _Don’t cry. You do not cry_. He could have been the most caring, considerate, careful person and the emotional pain would have remained. Having your first sexual encounter with a stranger while his decaying wife watched and held your hands and never being prepared for that experience or given a choice is not something to ever forgive and forget.

“Please,” he pleads with hot breath upon the shell of my ear. “If you can, allow me forgiveness?”

A tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek, betraying all my efforts to be submissive and emotionless. _Damn hormones._ He has never been so genuine or nice to me before. Why now? Because he is asking to be forgiven for the unforgivable? It is hard to be angry at him for rules and procedures he didn’t create until I remind myself that he willingly and obediently takes part in them and their progress.

He extends an olive branch and places a tender kiss on the back of my neck. Instinctively I shy away from it, cursing myself after and waiting to face the wrath of his rejection.

“Hey,” he says without a trace of anger or spite. He is allowing me that privilege. “Look at me,” he orders. He moves his chair to face me and through the blur of tears burning the edges of my vision I acknowledge the mixture of guilt and hurt on his face. I lower my head to look down and wipe my eyes.

“Please don’t cry.” An order, not a request. He closes the space between us and kisses my wet cheek. “If you will let me,” _No choice._ “I want to fix what’s happened. To have a re-do. I can’t change my actions but I can atone for them.”

I should cherish this moment of secured power. I am God to him and he is begging for a pardon from me but only to ease his own conscience, not mine. He is the non-believer at the gates of hell with one phone call to bail him out of an eternity of hellfire.

I clear my throat. “If there were a sin you wished to atone for, how would you atone for it?”

Without warning I am scooped up in his arms and cradled there. Past the thin mask of laundry detergent radiates the strong musk of expensive cologne that unsuccessfully hides the permanent scent of tobacco secretly smoked in his bedroom through a crack in his window. I am being carried through the hall to no-man’s land: his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I like to write in a notebook before I type things up and I go over the draft a few times to make sure I get all the thoughts and moments I want in the story.  
> While our leading lady is still conflicted on her feelings about her child and her husband, they are both big parts of her life, and I felt like it was time to really explore both. Her relationship with both of these characters will be ever-changing, and I say this because of how the chapter ended and where the next one will begin as far as her husband. A lot of what he says to her in this chapter sounded very romantic novel-y and that was purposeful. Some of what he said was genuine, but Esther still knows very little about him and his behavior and hasn't decided how she feels about his presence in her life or if she wants to pursue any type of relationship with him beyond a shared title. She's been deprived of emotional and physical affection for a long time, and I felt that she was at the point where she would take anything that came her way, even from him.  
> Basically, don't worry; this isn't going to be some sappy love story that is blossomed out of an abusive situation. Not at all-I can promise you that Esther knows what she wants and if she chooses to have a relationship of a platonic or non-platonic nature of anyone, it will be a realistic and healthy relationship.  
> Thank you for all of the support!


	4. Bedroom Hymns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Husband and wife reach a breaking point and pass a threshold. Esther battles with her body and her mind, desperate for a release from the confines of her life in Gilead society and allowing herself to find it in her husband's bed.

Have you ever been somewhere and felt ungrounded, like reality was altering under your feet? Four in the morning you wake up unable to sleep but unable to do anything else because you are staying at a friend’s place and you’re the only one awake. Maybe in the middle of a hallway at school during summer break or mere minutes after you’ve received your diploma. Someplace familiar or otherwise unthreatening suddenly feels like it is surrounded by static when seen through a different light.

            That is what fucking my husband feels like.

            Being a novice at physical intimacy, I hardly know what to do when my back is shoved upon the door and Daniel pins his body to mine, so I can feel his arousal, rough hands on my hips pulling me closer. His mouth finds my throat with urgency and I mewl when his teeth pinch my skin, testing the tenderness there. His teeth biting my skin does not hurt; the pressure he exerts is controlled and calculated to not cause pain or draw blood, but a mark or two wouldn’t be unexpected.

            My hands glide up his shoulders and neck, yearning to touch him before the moment ends. Forgetting self-control and restraint, I lose autonomy over my actions and find myself pressing my body flush against his and grabbing the soft tufts of his hair, encouraging him. If he removes his lips from my skin for more than the moment it takes him to breathe, the moment will be over.

            Resisting him is what I should be doing; if not physically then mentally or internally. Instead, I’m wrapping a leg around his hip and grinding with his movements almost as if by instinct.

I’ve known since birth-since the wedding-that I have no choice but to obey my husband. Now, I’ve lost my choice and my right to resist him in the confines of my own mind. I’m not even obeying him anymore. I am giving him permission, _encouraging_ him. Without saying one word I am begging him to never stop touching me. I am starved of touch and affection; of love and lust and the ability to want. Even in the shallowest of Gilead’s waters I am drowning, and this man is my only chance for rescue or revival.

            “Five months I’ve waited,” he growls at the curve of my jaw. “To finally fuck you.”

            The word “fuck” has never scared or aroused me as it does when Daniel says it to me, even before the word was criminalized. Cursing of any kind was outright criminalized; especially a word so blasphemous and atrocious as “fuck”. There is no “fucking” in Gilead. Procreation is only between a fertile man and woman in the constraints of wedlock once a month. There is no sex or love-making. There is not pleasure or lust.

            My muscles relax at the sound of his voice and I roll my head back to expose more of my neck to him-willingly _giving_ myself to him. My stomach pits in nervous anticipation and heat pools between my trembling thighs. I lower my head to meet his lips. They are rough an unyielding, teasing at the hesitancy of my own.

His lips are bitter wine, and I am intoxicated.

            I knew of handmaids who became involved in affairs with their Commanders; willingly or by the means of threats, coercion, or bribery. Daniel waited. Was he afraid of being monitored and caught, or did he have the small scrap of decency left within him to wait until his wilting wife was dead and buried?

            A growl of frustration rumbles out of Daniel’s mouth and tickles mine as he struggles to unbutton his shirt and strip the coarse fabric away. When he presses his bare chest against me, I am engulfed in uninhibited warmth. I can’t recall the last time I felt human body heat upon me or even close to me. Finally recognizing a comfortable rhythm of molding my untried lips to his, Daniel snakes his hands around my sides and firmly grabs my ass, hoisting me up. I wrap my other leg, still shaking, about his waist and emit a sigh when his silken tongue runs up a column of my throat.

            Guiding us backwards, he lowers me onto the bed and releases me from his hold. “I want to see you.” he pants, eyes hungrily tracing over the outlines of my figure beneath my robe.

            The liminal space is gone. Reality is no longer altered and absent but deafening and biting at my bones. Terror strikes the rose-colored glasses from my eyes and I see everything around me clearly. I fully-realize what is about to happen and that there is no going back. There is no erasing the events that are about to happen; fate and my hormones have already etched my future in stone.

            I am dangerously vulnerable. I don’t feel like a Wife anymore. I barely feel like a grown woman. I feel like a child trapped in their body but helpless as they watch themselves participate in what will be the obliteration of their innocence.

            I take a moment to observe him: his bare chest is somewhat expected. It is reminiscent of a Ken doll; presenting lean muscle and shallow tone softened by age. It lessens my fear of exposing myself.

My hands quiver as I tug on the belt of my robe and reveal my body unceremoniously to his hungry gaze. His expression changes. I can’t decipher if he is disappointed in my appearance or studying the rarely-nude human body in silence. His brown eyes linger on the swell of my abdomen. Suddenly I become self-conscious and yearn to curl up in a ball on his bed, sinking like the Titanic and never to be seen again.

            I begin to put my robe back on when he stops me. “No _, don’t_. I’m sorry. I’ve never seen how far along you are under all that _red_.” He says with disdain at the mention of my old uniform. I am not convinced of his sincerity. “Don’t worry, I still want you.” he tries to assure me with a thin smile.

            _He really knows how to woo a woman_. I’m slightly insulted and more reluctant than before to continue this exchange. I’m half certain that he is settling for me _just_ so he can stick his dick in someone willing.

            _Shit. I’m willing_.

            He kicks off his slippers and raises an eyebrow at me as I scoot towards the foot of the bed. “No, we don’t have to do it that way anymore.”

I’m increasingly becoming more embarrassed as he continues to speak.

He casually removes his pants and I turn my face away from him out of habit. He laughs and climbs atop me, tilting my face to his. “Don’t be afraid.”

            Had I still been wearing my handmaiden’s uniform, one could see this moment as a twisted re-telling of Little Red Riding Hood with Daniel starring as the Wolf.

            I am carrying his child in my womb, now as his wife, yet I cannot shake the ugly and stiff feeling of virginity. I shouldn’t feel so inferior and immature; this isn’t the first time he’d been inside of me.

He enters me slowly, torturously slow. He pauses within me to my great relief, allowing my body to adjust to him. The heat within me is no longer an invasion-it is invited and almost welcome. It is not as painful or rough as it was the first time when he branded me as his property and poisoned me with his seed. I scrape my fingernails along the surface of his skin and he winces.

            “Breathe,” his lust-laden voice purrs. I draw a breath in through my nose and exhale, relaxing my body around his.

            I feel a twinge of guilt. It is a reluctant feeling but one that cannot be absolved nonetheless. The last sexual contact he had was five months ago on the same bed as his decaying wife, and who knows when before that? His patience with me is dwindling as his body stiffens defensively, trying to restrain himself from moving too quickly or abruptly and hurting me as a result. He so badly wants to just _fuck me_ ; not slowly or gently. He probably resents me in this moment for my lack of sexual experience.  

            “Just breathe,“ his voice hitches in his throat as he pulls back and thrusts into me.

            I moan from discomfort. A thin sensation of pleasure begins to seep into all my senses, overpowering and blotting out all pain.

I am giving in to the fantasy that this is what I want. I remind myself that I am going to go insane from isolation and that I should be grateful that a man, my husband, has taken pity on me and given me release.

            I am adapting to survive.

* * *

 

            Daniel has his arms around me, one hand idly circling my nipple with his forefinger. He listens to my breathing as it normalizes.

            I am sore, but I imagine that it will take time before my body relaxes to coupling. If it ever happens again.

            “What are you thinking about?” he mumbles with his mouth pressed to my shoulder. His coarse facial hair irritates my skin. He places a gentle kiss on my shoulder and nudges me with his nose, trying to make me answer.

            I stay where I am and don’t turn to look at him. “Was I…okay?”

            Chuckling without mockery, Daniel tightens his arms around me reassuringly. “You were fine.”

            _Fine_. That isn’t good or bad.

            Caring about his opinion of my sexual performance makes me curse myself, but knowing it relieves the small part of me that can’t resist affirmation.

            “You called me Esther.” I state. _Multiple times_.

            “That _is_ your name, isn’t it?”

            “I didn’t realize anyone knew that information.” To be honest, I don’t know if I am allowed to be called by that name.

            “It was in your file.” He replies nonchalantly.

            “My file?” I echo, rolling over to face him.

            “Every handmaid has a file. It gives date of birth, given name, past stations, successful and unsuccessful pregnancies prior to this assignment. There’s no personal details, if that’s what you’re wondering. The file only provides information that is necessary to know.”

            I bite my lip and ask quietly, “It didn’t mention that I was a virgin?”

            Shaking his head, he replies, “I suppose Gilead doesn’t care how many times you’ve had sex, if at all, as long as you can produce a healthy child.”

            “Well, I guess we both work.” I try my hand at a joke.

            I am getting too comfortable here. He is getting to comfortable with me.

            “Yes,” he grins, placing a hand on my stomach. “On the first try…” he says in awe.

            His hand dances over the curves of my stomach, experimenting with the authenticity of the physical manifest of a child. His eyes wander across my skin, trying to visualize the fetus growing in my body and beneath his hand. It is the first time that he connects with being a father, the first time he understands the gravity of our situation. He removes his hand from my stomach as if he has touched something forbidden. My womb is heaven, and he has not earned the sight to see what lies beyond the gate.

            The little monster is in a paradise that I cannot help but expel him from to face the hell of Gilead.

            “Forgive me if this is too personal,”

            _I am laying naked in your bed, pregnant, post-coitous. That ship has passed._

            “Why weren’t you intimate with anyone before me?”

            I want to roll my eyes and tell him that it wasn’t about him.

            “Um,” I mumble unattractively, “I guess that I never found the right time or the right person. I was too busy to date and I didn’t want to hook up with a random person.”

            “Wait,” Daniel pulls away from me and gazes at me wearily. “You never went out on a date?”

            _There goes my pride_.

            “Nope.” I giggle nervously to hide my embarrassment. Heat tickles my ear and blazes across my cheeks.

            There is a heavy silence before Daniel states, rather than asks, an even more uncomfortable question. “Certainly, you’ve been kissed before?” I bite my lip and shake my head. I wished to make a cocoon in the sheets and hide. “Oh.”

            Daniel holds me close to comfort me, though it does little for my ego. He tilts his head down and searches for my eyes, but I am far too mortified to meet his. He places a soft kiss on my lips and does not try to make me kiss him in return. The kiss is a gift to me and he expects nothing in return. It is tender and deep, almost as if he loves me.

            Almost.

* * *

            When I awake, Daniel’s hand is resting on my stomach with another on my breast, and the returned firmness of his length pressing upon my back. I close my eyes and decide to rest a while longer, before the little monster wakes up and decides to voice his opinion on the previous night by kicking me awake. Behind me Daniel stirs and mumbles something unintelligible. I grin, wondering if his hand on my stomach is upsetting the little monster.

            “Whoa!” Daniel exclaims. His voice is raspy and strained from sleep.

            “He wants us to get up.”

            “Mmm…” Daniel mumbles in acknowledgement. He tightens his hold on me and makes it clear that he does not agree with his son. After another kick, softer, Daniel grumbles in surrender. “Alright, I’m up!”

            Rolling over, I hum with content at the feel of the sheets against my bare body and watch Daniel rise from bed to stretch out his stiff muscles. I notice the shapeliness of his ass, a pleasant surprise I had overlooked the previous night. Turning, he catches me watching him and admires the disheveled state of his bed.

            “Come here,” he requests, opening the door to his bathroom and shuffling out of view, expecting me to follow him. I hear the shower sputter to life as I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes. “Come here,” Daniel’s disembodied voice repeated more sternly, steam rolling through the doorway.

            Sliding my arms into my roble, I saunter over to the doorway and remind him, “I just showered.”

            Not wanting to risk the shower water running cold by starting the sink, I extend an arm into the shower to gather enough water to wet my face and scrub away the natural oils on my face. Daniel’s arm catches my forearm like a whip, wet fingers coiling around my flesh and making my hair stand on the back of my neck. Before I can object, Daniel wrenches me into the steam-filled space, directly under the showerhead, drenching me so that my robe clings to every curve and corner of my body.

            “What are you doing?”

            Leaning in, breath hot against my mouth he purrs, “Baptizing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm the worst for not updating.  
> There's four or five chapters that I've typed up and are being edited and such, so hopefully updates won't be so far apart.  
> Secondly, I changed the rating. This chapter isn't meant to be erotic, really; that time will come but it isn't now. This is Esther's real loss of virginity in her eyes, and sometimes losing your virginity goes well or badly but no matter what, it is awkward and Esther's first "real" time isn't meant to be sexy or un-realistic.  
> This chapter (this encounter, really) isn't just because I wanted to write it, per se, it is meant to advance the plot and character development. I'm sorry if it falls short of expectations, but it is meant to be a stepping stone to the meat of the story.


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